





« 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 


% 


'V 

'I, 

Cl 


4 


i 

i 










“ She is the future Mrs. Barnaby ” 

Fron 1 isj)iece Page 12 



Jack Barnaby 

By 

HENRY JAMES ROGERS 



Illustrations by 
Ch. Weber Ditzler 


G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS . - - NEW YORK 



UBRA^RY 0^ CONGRESS 
Two Gopies Received 

MAY 5 1904 

Oopyrlffht Entry 

^ a ^ 

CLASS XXo. No. 

^ ^ im ^ f 

COPY B 




Copyright, 1904, by 
G. W, DILLINGHAM COMPANY 
[all rights rhsbrved] 


Entered at Stationers’ Hall 


Jack Barnaby 


Issued May ^ ^904. 


DEDICATED 

TO 

YOU 



PP.S: V 'X' : , : : ';:■;;; - ' y : ,: ■ ■ ' : : ^ :y:/;^ , :■;••'■ /■ :; ■:•■' y;;;: , ' y ; 


' ' ' I (, I j < I • 4 . • V 


v ■ 

«yyv';-l '■ ' :•: 


1 ,1 , 



V • ■JJ 


t0Wv 

v^v 'K' *V' ■ ■•'■ 




■*4 m- • .i I ( 1 1 • i \ 

' pj.:' 

'wr ' 

'."V‘ . 

'W V y: , / 


' •*. L*-< 




'KO '!' I'-' ■ 


f I 


Jam/'- -y ' V •, y 
^VA', y.y ,' .y 

k.%l';v > . ' 

c.yi’*' ' ' • ■ ’ , 

! :< :!-i>::'.y :■ y : ' 




./• V : 


wyyyy'-'. 


py'yyvy'''" 

I/,/:., 

HxS/A,'.',' '■ V 


'4 


■ 

y.vx, 


fexyy;;y 


^ ■ ■•yV'A 


: y /■ 




- ( I 


y ' .v^yiv';*} 




■ y/v :’ y' 

■/ '■ A V‘' 


11 ’ . i'. 

: :' ;■/ • : . .V i;i 

< t 


rjf 


LVXC '-V,y 


‘O'.'.vy , y. ' y. , , 

»W-y:yi:- ' 
ppyy:y 

Iv/A i,< I ♦ ' . ».,•/!. , , , ' ', I. 

yy-yMr'! 




* i 


. ‘/M 


' I 


My 


i 

m 


yVO'/ ' A'/yV: ,' 

itefey yty;y;:;V;y ' 

A;y:s;:yyy: V'i :y :yy: 


■*, I 


/ AW y 
././V/.y., 









fe:y;'v/ V ;;y■^y' y.^y y.;Wi A 
i/y,/y;yy.: y y;:,y y ; 'yyyH 




ILLTJSTEATIONS 


** She IS THE FUTURE Mrs. Barnaby” . . . . 
It was Helen, the Helen of Long Ago . . , 
“Your eyes so tender and your arms around me” 
*“ I don’t care, I SHALL STAY ’ ” 


PAGE 

12 


58 

77 






119 



JACK BARNABY 


Jack Barnaby^s apartment was on 
— ^th Street, overlooking the park. 
Its furnishings were quiet, as was 
seemly for a scribbler, but with a 
very decided tendency toward the 
artistic. In the study were evi- 
dences that the owner both worked 
and idled. The desk, in the corner 
by the window, held a generous 
bronze inkwell, a capacious blotter, 
and sundry small articles — framed 
photographs, statuettes in bronze, 
and was more like a woman's work- 


9 


JACK BARNABY 


shop than that of a mere man. But 
Jack was not a mere man; he was 
a writer^ and therefore presumably- 
endowed with sensitive and analyti- 
cal qualities exceptional. He loved 
luxury, but had certain uncomfort- 
able, puritanical ideas on Duty, 
with a capital. Perhaps this was 
the reason for the straight-backed 
desk chair, while on the other side 
of the room was a huge Turkish 
divan, with a variegated multitude 
of pillows. 

Already Barnaby had made a hit 
with his short stories and dialogues. 
Lately, he had been doing some 
rather more ambitious work on a 


10 


JACK BARNABY 


problem novel, and was only wait- 
ing for a ^^speir^ in which to com- 
plete it. 

It was late one afternoon in Feb- 
ruary that J ack came home with a 
look of unwonted excitement in his 
face. For a few moments he wan- 
dered about aimlessly, then sat down 
on the divan, and, taking a photo- 
graph from his pocket, set himself 
to examine it by the fast-fading 
daylight. The picture was of a 
young girl, with wavy hair, a mu- 
tinous, tip-tilted nose, and a mouth 
which seemed just ready to break 
into a smile. 

Jack said to himself, mu- 
11 


JACK BARNABY 


singly, ^^slie is not pretty; but she 
is the future Mrs. Barnaby. Good 
evening, Mrs. Barnaby,^^ he said 
aloud, addressing the picture, with 
a humorous twist to his clean-cut 
lips. ^^Good evening, Mrs. Barnaby, 
I really have so many things to talk 
over with you that I am at a loss 
to know just where to begin. Could 
you listen to me, do you suppose, 
for an hour?^^ He settled himself 
more comfortably and lighted a 
cigarette. So much had happened 
in the last twenty-four hours that 
there had been a sort of moral erup- 
tion, which had at once modified 
him, his plans, his mode of living, 

IS 


JACK BARNABY 


even his philosophy of life. There 
had been no drifting until matters 
settled themselves ; his new life had 
begun with the answer a woman 
had given to a question. This had 
happened six hours ago. He was 
procrastinating, he thought with a 
smile. He had always tarried in 
pleasant places until driven out; 
but now, to-morrow, he must go to 
her and put himself into her hands. 
If she loved him enough it would 
be all right — but did she ? He closed 
his eyes, concentrated his will, and 
summoned before his mental vision 
a picture of Margery, clear-eyed, 
calm and sweet. He imagined him- 

13 


JACK BARNABY 


self talking to her, telling her the 
story of his whole life. He reviewed 
his Wanderjahr silently, almost 
sullenly, for, with a newly awakened 
conscience, he saw every weakness 
and petty failing, and it was a relief 
to remember the two years which 
immediately followed his father^s 
failure and suicide. These were 
years of privation and endurance; 
of perseverance and pluck in the 
face of circumstances. And he had 
fought them alone, because his wid- 
owed mother had gone back to her 
home in the South, enabled after 
the settlement to eke out a slender 
existence. 


14 


JACK BARN ABY 


It was all easy up to the time 
he met Helen Langdon. He was 
twenty-five at the time, and thor- 
oughly discouraged and disheart- 
ened. She was older than he, mar- 
ried to a man she did not love, 
childless, frivoling away her life in 
a round of empty social duties. 
Their two bitternesses had come 
together. She had comforted him, 
and helped him ; he had given her 
his true and loyal friendship, a de- 
votion akin to love, but farther 
from it than hate. Honest and sin- 
gle-minded, he threw himself and 
his whole strength into the struggle 
for success along the lines she led 

15 


JACK BARNABY 


him. He went to her, and, with 
boyish enthusiasm, confided to her 
all his plans, his hopes, his dark 
hours of despair. He was sure of 
her affectionate interest, and made 
continual demands upon her sym- 
pathy. He did not know she loved 
him, loved the man, and loved the 
boy. But one day, in rapid sen- 
tences, she told him of her ruined 
life, of her marriage to a man whose 
love had not outlived the honey- 
moon; of her loneliness in the big, 
childless house. All the pent-up 
agony of years was poured out to 
his willing ear, though he but half 
comprehended what it all meant. 

16 


JACK BARNABY 


He listened, growing vaguely uncom- 
fortable as her emotion increased, 
and when at length she told him 
that she loved him, that she had 
feared and hoped until she could 
stand the uncertainty no longer; 
that it was impossible that he did 
not care for her, that he mmt^ that 
it would kill her if — and she held 
out her hands to him, those beau- 
tiful hands he had kissed so rev- 
erently, so that he took them in 
his own and drew her towards 
him, wondering if the aching pity 
he felt for her were indeed love. 
He looked into her eyes, and, with 
a sudden shock, saw in them the 

2 17 


JACK BARNABY 


naked image of the woman^ robbed 
of all her higher attributes. And 
of that look was born a desire so 
fierce that it threw her, panting, 
into his arms. Almost at the same 
instant he was conscious that he 
was very angry with her. She had 
been his idol, his impeccable woman- 
friend — a far-away creature of mys- 
terious powers, not wholly an angel, 
only partly a woman. And now 
she stood before him, subject to 
him. The pride of the male was 
flattered, while the spiritual man 
recoiled and would have held him 
back, — ^for, in the inner recesses of 
his soul, where no woman had ever 
18 


JACK BARNABY 


penetrated, was an altar to the pure 
image of Her who should share his 
life and be the mother of his chil- 
dren. All these years he had kept 
himself for her. When desire had 
mastered him, it had been a phys- 
ical thing in which his soul had 
no part. But this was different; he 
knew that when she touched him 
something would go out from him 
that he could never hope to recover; 
that in answering the evident call 
of her baser nature he would lower 
the standard he had endeavored to 
live up to and open to profanation 
the inner closet of his soul. 

And aU the time he was holding 

19 


JACK BARNABY 


her in his arms. After all, what 
mattered the dreams of his boy- 
hood! Dared he hoped ever to be 
in a worldly position to make any 
legitimate tie ? Here in her arms, 
pillowed on the round splendor of 
her breast, he could be happy; 
could forget in her embrace the 
petty sordidness of his life. He 
knew he would suffer. Suffer be- 
cause he must live a lie ; that he 
had made a life which, although 
not unlike that of many other men, 
had never seemed right to him. 
Yet his arms closed more tightly 
around the sensuous, yielding body. 


20 


JACK BARNABY 


The weeks and months passed, 
tumultuous joy alternating with 
great nervous depression; the first 
triumph of possession passed, he 
knew that he did not love her. 
Helen had given her mind and 
heart before she had given herself ; 
she had ransacked her treasure- 
house, had used her best to win 
him, so that she had nothing new 
to offer. Secure in his loyalty, al- 
though she soon suspected his love 
was not like hers, she settled down 
into a routine, making an irregular 
situation as regular as possible and 
thus adding another rivet to the 
chain that bound Jack to her. 


21 


JACK BARNABY 


While Jack was grateful, he was 
unable to forget the other woman, 
the Helen whose sympathy and 
intelligent help had lifted him out 
of desperate straits. Even in the 
most passionate days of their union, 
he had a half cynical regret of 
their more mystical relation of the 
past. Some days when he sat writ- 
ing and waiting for her, he would 
wish nervously that she would not 
come, and yet if the hour struck 
and she were late he would writhe 
in an agony of impatience until he 
held her in his arms. And on 
these days he would he more 
wildly passionate in his caresses, 

23 


JACK BARNABY 


more fervent in his protestations, 
as an atonement for the unspoken 
treachery. 

But though Helen was happy, she 
was not blind, and she was jealous. 
She told him her doubts and her 
fears, and he shut his firm lips 
wearily when for the hundredth 
time he had said: 

will love you always.^^ 

She tried to believe him. 

She made a mistake when she 
became over-exacting, over-violent 
in her demonstrations, more mis- 
tress than friend, forgetting that it 
was his mind she had first touched 
and catering only to his senses, and 

23 


JACK BARNABY 


while these thrilled as eagerly as 
ever in her embrace^ he became 
more brutal and violent, for he 
hated himself that their meetings 
should have sunk to the level of 
the physical, and was angry with 
her for allowing it. She would not 
understand. The day came when 
they were enemies, joined by a 
physical tie made strong by habit. 
He hated her and desired her, 
while in her, hate and love strove 
mightily and together shook her 
soul into a frenzy that was well- 
nigh madness. 

Jack^s work suffered, and his 
talent became sterile as in the days 

24 


JACK BARNABY 


when Helen had first loved him. 
He broke down and was ordered 
away. He went South to his 
mother. It was six months before 
they met; she was saner, and he 
was well and fully restored to his 
normal vigor — mental and physical. 

He determined that there should 
be no renewal of the old relation. 
He wrote to her before he returned 
to the city: 

^^The folly of the last three 
years can have no renewal. I 
must work to live. You know 
what it did for me. If I were rich 
I would have taken you away, and 
when your husband had divorced 

25 


JACK BARNABY 


you I would have married you. 
As matters stand I have nothing to 
offer. I had rather you were my 
friend. Try and help me to find 
my old felicity of expression. 

Helen answered him. 

You have put into words what 
I have most desired — to become 
once more your friend^ 

But she lied, for the old desire 
burned her flesh. She strove to for- 
get that her arms were empty and 
drugged herself with promises. He 
will come back/' she said to herself 
^^In a little while he will come 
back." She did what she could to 


26 


JACK BARNABY 


charm him, but the man was fight- 
ing. He kept as much as possible 
out of the way of temptation. 

In January he had met Margery. 
They loved. There was no reason, 
no passion. As their hands had 
clasped they knew that each had 
been waiting. 

The door-bell rang. Jack sat up 
suddenly; the fire was dead. He 
struggled to his feet as the bell 
rang a second time. He went to 
the door and flung it wide open. 
David Dix came in stamping the 
snow off his arctics. 

“Where the devil have you been, 
old man?’' he said, “we waited half 

27 


JACK BARNABY 


an hour for you and then dined. 
We called you up on the ^phone, 
but the snow had put your end out 
of order so the fellows delegated 
me to come and rout you out. 
What is the matter? You Ye 
white! Seen a ghost 

J ack laughed a little awkwardly. 

^^Yes, a few. I think I have 
been asleep. Come in and have a 
drink, while I get into my togs. 
We go to Eames’ Studio to-night, 
don’t we ? The annual Tea — I can’t 
quite remember.” 

Yes, go and get ready. I say, 
Jack, have you dined?” 

^^No, but I don’t mind.” 

28 


JACK BARNABY 


“Um, that is serious. Love or 
liver, Jackie ? ” 

The next day Jack went to 
Margery and told her of his life 
and struggles much as he had 
dreamed it the previous night. It 
had not been easy, for Margery 
had sat white and silent, occa- 
sionally putting her hand on his 
with a gesture of caress, but until 
the end she never spoke. He was 
glad that the record of the past 
nine months had been clean? 

There was a long silence. 

“I am very sorry for her. Jack. 
She loved you. Will you see my 
uncle to-night?” 


29 


JACK BARNABY 


^^Yes; the sooner the better/^ 
Jack stood up and squared his 
broad shoulders. He set his lips 
tight^ and there was a look of de- 
termination on his face that cheered 
Margery^ who was by no means 
confident as to his reception by the 
choleric Mr. Perry. Margery knew 
that her uncle had ambitions^ and 
she knew, too, that he was not easily 
persuaded. However, let Jack go 
to his ordeal with all the courage 
he would have naturally. His cause 
was good, even if he had little to 
back it with. They made no plans; 
they talked little — the presence of 
each was enough for the other, 
so 


JACK BARNABY 


Jack Barnaby^s interview witb 
Mr. Perry was calm and serene. . It 
was unexpectedly so. He only re- 
quired that, until hearing from him 
further^ Jack was not to see Mar- 
gery. It was nearly a week when 
he received a brief note informing 
him that Mrs. Perry and her niece 
were sailing for Europe that day. 
It also stated that the writer had 
requested his niece to forego any 
correspondence with Mr. Barnaby 
for the present, and that she would 
herself inform him. Jack was in- 
credulous. In the next mail came 
a note from Margery, written evi- 
dently in great distress. For the 

31 


JACK BARNABY 


most it was formal and rather non- 
committal. At the end, however, 
she wrote, ^^Do not forget anything 
I have said. It was all true, and 
always will be true. The darkest 
hour of the night is the one before 
dawn. Wait.^^ And he waited. He 
cursed his poverty, for he under- 
stood the unspoken decision in Mr. 
Perry^s note, and its implication. 
He was sure that some pressure had 
been brought to bear that Margery 
should yield with barely a murmur. 
But he had faith in her. It was 
some time before he was able to fully 
grasp the situation. Her coming 
into his life had been so sudden, 

32 


JACK BARNABY 


everything in their short acquaint- 
ance so unconventional^ that her dis- 
appearance seemed part of the nat- 
ural sequence of events. It was only 
as the days became weeks that he 
realized she was gone, not to re- 
turn. 

He shut himself up to work. His 
intimates knew that it was his habit 
to write with breathless energy, 
and to loaf with an idleness as abso- 
lute, and they never disturbed him. 
He had always worked fitfully, even 
when he was in danger of going 
hungry during the off times, but 
nothing had deterred him. He now 
began with renewed energy on the 

3 33 


JACK BARNABY 


book wbicb he had been writing 
at odd moments for the past six 
months^ and in which he believed. 

The glamour of Margery’s pres- 
ence had blinded him to the prac- 
tical side of life. His own wants 
had been few, and for several years 
he had been able to satisfy them. 
Now, suddenly, he saw that he was 
poor. His summary rejection had 
come, doubtless, from that cause. 
Money — or, rather, the lack of it. 
He would have liked to write to 
her, but dared not. , She had said. 

Wait ! ” W ell, he would trust her. 

He worked diligently, and the 
book was at last finished. He had 


34 


JACK B ARN ABY 


been shut up alone for several 
weeks^ only going out for his meals 
and a little air. He had seen no 
one, for his friends, respecting his 
privacy, never ventured to break in 
upon him unless the period dragged 
itself to some unwonted length. 
Dix was just thinking it was time to 
call at the flat, when a telephone 
message announced the end of the 
^^speiy^ and that Jack was giving 
a dinner in honor of the event. He 
was very confident of success; and 
that night there was an unusual 
boyish ring in his voice and a light 
in his eyes that did not escape the 
notice of his companions. They 

85 


JACK BARN AB Y 


found him more confident than his 
wont, but shared his enthusiasm. 
They could not guess that it was 
the hope of the future that made 
the radiance in the face so often 
hard, while no one knew that next 
to Jack^s heart lay a little note, 
without date or signature, and 
which had said: 

Dear, I am in trouble. I can- 
not write of it. You must trust 
me, whatever happens, and believe 
in my love, I am forbidden to write 
to you, and I fear our absence will 
be prolonged. Once more I must 
tell you — I love you.^^ 

Though he was profoundly dis- 

36 


JACK BARNABY 


tressed that she should be in trouble, 
it gave him an immense joy to feel 
that before long he could take her 
away from her people if she chose 
to follow him, and to know that 
this was no dream, hut a tangible 
reality which lay in the sheets of 
manuscript in his desk. 

He did not answer her note as 
he had at first intended, he wanted 
to send her the publisher’s letter. 
One morning it came — that letter. 
Before he broke the seal he knew. 
There was a deathlike numbness in 
his fingers, and a spasm around his 
heart that nearly choked him. 
When he spread it out before him 

37 


JACK BARNABY 


the letters blurred, and he hesi- 
tated. Perhaps he was wrong; 
perhaps that intuition that had 
never yet been in fault had this 
time failed. He read the letter 
through twice, slowly. 

“ Stick to short stories, Bar- 
naby,” it ran ; “ that is your 

forte, and what the public wants. 
‘ Clouds ’ would have pleased an 
earlier generation, but it is too 
‘hifalutin’ for to-day. Wait and 
try again in a year or two.” It 
ended with a few friendly words, 
for the writer was a personal friend 
of Jack’s, and he was sorry. 

Jack sat motionless. He felt as 


38 


JACK BARNABY 


though a blow had been aimed at 
him by a giant and had struck him 
through a pad. It had not killed 
him, it had not even stunned him, 
but it had strained every joint, 
every muscle in his body, jarred his 
brain so that he had ached physi- 
cally and was unable to have any 
coordinate thought. He turned 
over the rest of his mail, opened 
and read its contents mechan- 
ically. The last was a little gray 
note. It said: You are all I have 
to depend upon.^^ He had read it 
several times before he recognized 
the writing, and then the real 
depth of his powerlessness to help 

89 


JACK BARNABY 


her burst over him. He was noth- 
ing, could be nothing, and in the 
hour of her need, the very first 
time she called upon him he must 
fail her. She did not know it 
yet, she need not know it, but 
might rest happily in the knowl- 
edge that he loved her and would 
help her. There was a confused 
murmur in his head that reiterated 
over and over again, Help her ! 

You cannot ! You cannot help 
her ! Hours passed while he sat 
there in his chair, his head bowed 
in his hands, powerless to react. 
And when at length he started up, 
the gray dawn was stealing in 

40 


JACK BARNABY 


between the blinds. He stared 
around him, and the familiar ob- 
jects were strange shapes in the 
half light. The wide-spread wings 
of the Winged Victory mocked 
him with their free, upward sweep. 
For a moment he watched it and 
murmured between his teeth Vic- 
tory — he who had failed! He got 
to his feet unsteadily, dizzy and 
confused by his long vigil and the 
strain of emotion. He stumbled 
over a book and fell heavily like a 
thing inert, striking the statue so 
that it, too, rocked and fell. He 
lay there a few moments dazed by 
the shock and the blow. Some- 


41 


JACK BARNABY 


how he extricated himself and, con- 
scious only of an intolerable pain 
in the back of his head, threw 
himself on his bed without troub- 
ling to undress. David, some hours 
later, found him sleeping heavily. 
He woke as his friend came in. 
There was little conversation be- 
tween them, and Dix went away 
feeling profoundly disturbed. Only 
once before had he seen Jack in 
this state of prostration — mental 
and physical. As he was walking 
down towards his own flat he 
remembered that it was a woman 
who had put Jack on his feet. 
That woman was Helen Langdon, 

42 


JACK BARNABY 


and she had just come from the 
South. Without hesitating, David 
turned in the direction of Fifth 
Avenue. 

Mrs. Langdon was at home, and 
received him cordially. When he 
had stated his case, she smiled. 
Jack was down, and his friend in 
the hour of need turned to her as 
the only person able to lift the 
fallen man. If Dix had known what 
he was doing, and the peril he was 
preparing for his unsuspecting friend, 
he might have hesitated on the 
threshold of the Fifth Avenue man- 
sion, and if he could have read the 
true meaning of the imperturbable 

48 


JACK BARNABY 


smile in liis hostesses face, he would 
even then have tried to recall the 
words he had just spoken. 

However, he went away with a 
load lifted from his heart, and se- 
cure in the feeling that he had done 
the very best possible thing in the 
very best possible way. 

An hour later Helen stood before 
her mirror, pulling on her long 
gloves, smiling at her reflection, and 
letting her eye wander critically 
from the top of her fur toque to 
the tip of her patent-leather boot. 
She was satisfied. The lines of her 
perfect figure were mature, and the 
soft folds of her white cloth gown 

44 


JACK BARN AB Y 


chastened the full curves. Jack had 
a preference in dress. Helen knew 
the value of little things, and now 
that she was coming into her own 
again (she drew a long, quivering 
breath), now she would have no 
jarring note in that perfect meeting. 
She would not heed the very small- 
est admonition of fear — she was 
going to Tiim^ he needed her; there 
was no one else that could take 
the place that she had held in his 
life, not even Margery — strangely 
enough, she had not thought of 
Margery before. She had been so 
much occupied with herself she had 
not had time to wonder what had 


45 


JACK BARNABY 


become of that Other woman, and 
now she dismissed the thought as 
without consequence. Jack Bar- 
naby was hers. She was not boast- 
ing when she claimed to have made 
him. She had given him of her 
best, and it was good; she had 
taught him to know his own power, 
how to use it, and, better still, had, 
with her own great love, taught 
him how to draw real women, not 
mere dolls. If he had suffered, he 
had learned the better to portray 
suffering. She was conscious of 
this; somehow, she had expected 
that he would understand, and she 
had been hurt because he had not 


46 


JACK BARNABY 


appreciated it. But, loving him, 
she thought of his faults tenderly. 
She had not always been so lenient; 
during those long months when he 
had been away she had been angry 
with him — had voTved to punish him 
bitterly when he came back to her. 
She had never admitted to herself 
that he might not come back to 
her. Even when he had announced 
his coming marriage, she had been 
only momentarily depressed by this 
obstacle to the renewal of her hap- 
piness. She would not have con- 
sidered his marriage a serious hin- 
drance — one that time and patience 
could not do away with. Perhaps 

47 


JACK B ARN AB Y 


nothing but death would have en- 
tirely discouraged her. She gath- 
ered her fur-lined mantle around 
her and went down into the hall, 
where a servant opened the door 
for her. There was nothing in her 
manner to betray the excited thrill 
that shot through her as she swept 
into the air. She remembered the 
first time she had gone to him, and 
she felt to-day much of the same 
agitation. Then, as to-night, she 
was going to the pretty little apart- 
ment where she had given herself, 
body and soul — where the rooms 
were full of memories, and each cor- 
ner, each picture, each little orna- 

48 


JACK BARNABY 


ment, held some perfume of the old 
days. As she walked rapidly up the 
avenue, she wondered if the deli- 
cate aroma of sandal-wood still 
clung to the Turkish corner. It 
was so faint and evasive that she 
had spent days trying to discover 
whence it came. Jack had laughed 
as he watched her bury her face in 
one pillow after the other. 

It is a trick I learned in India 
two thousand years ago/^ he had 
always insisted. 

She could see the writing-table, 
with its medley of the useful and 
ornamental — she had given him the 
massive inkstand and the frivolous 


4 


49 


JACK BARNABY 


^^art nouveau paper-weight that 
stood beside it^ ^^just for contrast/^ 
Above the desk were the photo- 
graphs of his father and mother, in 
plain oval frames, while from among 
the papers her own face looked up. 
Was it there? Did the Golden 
Stair still hang in its old place ; 
and the little original of ^^Chip,^’ 
that she had given him on his birth- 
day — was it over the piano ? 

It was quite dark when she 
reached the house, and she hesi- 
tated a moment. What would she 
say? She had meant to rehearse 
the scene, and all the way she had 
been thinking of the room — as 

50 


JACK BARNABY 


thongli it mattered! Yet she knew 
that it mattered. She knew that 
the big Winged Victory would 
give her courage from its usual 
place ; even the plaster imps on the 
mantel would grin a welcome, they 
had seen her so often. But suppose 
he had changed it all, so that she 
could find no trace of herself ? For 
the first time she shivered and was 
afraid. 

The janitor put her in the lift and 
sent her up. He was a new man 
and looked at her curiously. She 
flushed under his half-insolent scru- 
tiny. Very carefully she fitted her 
key to the lock. How long ago it 

51 


JACK BARNABY 


was since she had said, jestingly, 
that no man dare give a woman 
the key to his door, and he had 
taken her seriouslj^ As they had 
parted friends she had kept the 
key. So to-night she walked in on 
him unannounced, moving softly, 
that the ruffle of her skirts might 
not betray her. She stood in the 
door a full minute before he saw 
her. 

He was sitting in front of the 
fire, staring into the glowing em- 
bers. The slender, powerful figure 
drooped listlessly. Every line in 
his pale face was hard and hope- 
less; his eyes, heavy-lidded and red- 
52 


JACK BARNABY 


rimmed from sleeplessness, were 
bright with fever. Helen stood 
trembling in the doorway. She 
longed to throw herself on him, 
break through the ice of his deso- 
lation, warm him to life under her 
caresses, cover and protect him 
from the hurt he was enduring, — 
yet all the passionate love which 
surged from her heart was forced 
back by the sight of a little photo- 
graph on the floor which had fallen 
from his hand. Suddenly there 
rose in her an unreasonable and 
unreasoning hatred of the woman 
who, when he needed her most, 
had left her lover, to wander in the 

53 


JACK BARNABY 


gardens of Europe. Her face grew 
hard and evil in an instant, till love 
conquered, and Jack, looking ab- 
sently in the little mirror under the 
mantel shelf, saw a beautiful, famil- 
iar face. 

Jack drew a long, sobbing breath; 
he had sat there for hours trying 
to think, trying to piece out the 
future from the fragments of the 
past. He thought of Margery and 
of all he had hoped to do for her, 
and of the distance that had grown 
so great since the previous day. 
He knew that the way before him 
was very hard ; he had no right to 
ask her, to ask any woman to wait. 

54 


JACK BARNABY 


It was so much, further than he 
thought, — that day when he could 
claim her. Was it worth while? 
He had lived along happily enough: 
what was the use of all this strug- 
gle ? For what ? A companion, 
and children, and more anxiety and 
worry, sorrow and pain and death. 
It was all very elusive, and perhaps 
the gain was not worth the effort. 
Helenas face came before him con- 
tinually. That was not what he 
had dreamed of, but it was love, 
it was companionship. She had 
been very tender and very loving 
until— there lay the trouble — when 
their relation had become a habit 


55 


JACK BARNABY 


her exactions had worried him. 
Married, might it not be the 
same ? He had better forget 
Margery. He would go back to 
work; creep away out of all that 
reminded him of the old life. 
Helen was in the room everywhere. 
He had intended to change his 
quarters but had delayed. Now 
he would do so. He would fight 
this lethargy that was stealing over 
him — ^to-morrow ; yes, to-morrow. 
To-night he was tired, oh, so tired, 
and his head was empty and heavy. 
If Helen had only remained the 
friend ! If he could only go to her 
and let her put her soft hands on 

56 


JACK BARNABY 


his head as she had done in the 
years long ago, when he had been 
just as miserable and sick at heart 
as to-night. Margery should have 
been there — poor little Margery ! 
She was not to blame; no, not to 
blame ! But Helen ! Why did Helen 
haunt him ? He could feel her soft 
caress! She seemed to pervade 
the atmosphere with a gentle aroma 
of violets — like a memory, faint and 
persistent. Ah ! if she would only 
come. But no, no, he did not want 
to see her ; it was Margery, — afresh, 
whole-souled and j oy ous ; she would 
have stopped that buzzing in his 
head. Where did that perfume 

57 


JACK BARNABY 


come from? Was he dreaming? 
Would it go if he stirred? If he 
raised his head he would see her — 
Helen? no^ Margery? — no, it was 
Helen who wore the violets. Once 
she had come to him in a floating 
white frock and a hunch of violets 
in her hand — she was very beauti- 
ful! 

He looked up and saw the face. 
He drew a long, quivering, sobbing 
breath. It was Helen, the Helen 
of long ago. He had a faint idea 
that he was very ill and that this 
was part of the illusion of his brain. 
He rose unsteadily and held out his 
arms. She was real. 


58 



It was Helen, the Helen of Long Ago 


Page 58 





JACK BARNABY 


She took him unawares^ all his 
defences down, and still only half 
conscious of the reality of anything 
but his defeat, his utter loneliness, 
and the warmth of her presence. 
The past years were obliterated; 
he was a boy again obeying her 
caprices. And she was his! 

In the room she had left. Jack 
stood alone. His face paler, his 
mouth harder than when Helen had 
watched him from the door. With 
her presence had gone the intoxi- 
cation, all the passion, all the illu- 
sion, and in its place a sickly loath- 
ing of himself and her. He saw 

59 


JACK BARNABY 


the past rise up before him — Mar- 
gery ! What she had meant to 
him, and now — the present — the 
Woman, the one who had just left 
him. In his heart he said good-by 
to all the cherished hopes. He ac- 
knowledged himself beaten, that 
there was no strength in him, and 
that the tie he had so fondly consid- 
ered as broken held him as fast as 
ever. He writhed under the shame 
of it. His manhood revolted at the 
slavery. He would not ! He said 
it aloud — will not.^^ But his 
voice was unsteady. Once before 
he had said, will not,’^ and in 
the supreme moment when he had 
60 


JACK BARNABY 


thought himself free for all time, 
and bound by another and dearer 
bond, he had surrendered. 

He threw himself face down on 
the divan, and dispassionately, mo- 
ment by moment, went over the 
details of Helen’s visit. He endeav- 
ored to recall the ecstasy of that 
moment when he had held her in 
his arms and felt the warm rain of 
her kisses on his lips, but it was 
all gone. He was shocked at the 
quick capitulation of his senses; he 
was distressed by the recoil. Was 
he to be loyal to no one, faithful 
in nothing ? He had nothing but 
shame. Even if Margery came 
61 


JACK BARNABY 


back to bim, what had he to offer 
her? Could he be sure that even 
her dear presence would keep him 
in the face of temptation ? Would 
it not be more manly now to put 
aU thought of her away, break the 
fragile link that bound them, and 
remain faithful in deed if not in 
heart to the woman who had just 
left him ? After all, he reflected 
bitterly, he was a creature of cir- 
cumstances, and if there were any 
manhood left in him he must pro- 
tect the girl he loved from himself. 
He smiled grimly. In his mind he 
placed the two women side by side. 
The girl, — pure, full of the joy of 
62 


JACK BARNABY 


living, loving with her whole heart 
and mind, trusting him, believing 
in him, innocent of evil but not 
ignorant, forgiving and tolerant; 
and the woman , — ^sensuous and 
strong, loving and passionately vin- 
dictive. He knew that if it had 
been any other woman it would 
not have been the same ; he knew 
that Margery, girl as she was, was 
still too world- wise to have counted 
against him a casual surprise of the 
senses, but that was different. This 
woman had been a part of himself, 
the nobler part indeed, until she 
chose the baser. She had been 
his intellectual companion, and had 

63 


JACK BARNABY 


stimulated his talents and his am- 
bition, and if she had never touched 
his heart it was because he was 
waiting. Oh, the pitiful irony of 
it! The desecration of his sanc- 
tuary, the violation of his inmost 
soul that he had kept for her. No ! 
There was nothing left. He had 
failed everywhere. He turned rest- 
lessly. His head ached worse than 
ever and was maddening; he could 
not think coherently, and the pain 
in the back of his neck was confus- 
ing. If his mother had only been 
nearer. He was sure her hand — or 
was it Margery he wanted? He 
sat up, and the familiar objects 

64 


JACK B ARN AB Y 


jeered at him. It was all Helen — 
Helen. He felt the potency of in- 
animate objects. Perhaps if he 
had moved away, had left the 
scented pillows and all the familiar 
entourage of the old relation, per- 
haps indeed this irremediable thing 
would not have occurred. He rose 
to his feet unsteadily. He was ill, 
he knew. One thing he must do 
before he let himself go, let himself 
die perhaps — only, and his clean- 
cut lips twisted bitterly, men did 
not die at these times ; he must cut 
the last little link in the beloved 
chain. He was very ill, his mind 
wandered a little and he thought 

5 65 


JACK BARNABY 


Margery had come in and he was 
talking to her. Then the reality 
came home to him and he wrote 
her. He sent her a letter received 
from Mr. Perry which was not a 
too polite request to desist from 
further pretensions to her hand. 
Jack said: 

^^The enclosed needs no com- 
ment. I regret that Mr. Perry 
should have considered it neces- 
sary. Recent events, however, 
have gone to prove my inability to 
reach the monetary standing to be 
held by your husband. Rather 
than bring any trouble into your 
life and at the risk of making you 
66 


JACK BARNABY 


unhappy for a time^ I wish to with- 
draw from an engagement entered 
upon without due reflection. Be- 
lieve me I am cruel for your sake, 
and my affection and highest 
esteem are yours always. 

^^John Barnaby.^^ 

He addressed it carefully, rang 
for the janitor and handed him the 
letter. Register it,^^ he said, ^^and 
then telephone Mr. Dix to come 
round and — Sam, you might help 
me to my bed, the floor keeps com- 
ing up and trying to strike me — 
man! hurry up! the ^Winged Vic- 
tory ^ is falling ! Can^t you see it ? 
Come away.^^ Jack stumbled to 

67 


JACK BARNABY 


his feet, and threw his hands ont 
as though to protect his face. Sam 
shook his head, and grasping the 
delirous man by the arm half led, 
half carried him to his bed. David 
came in answer to the frightened 
niessage of the janitor. He found 
his friend growing violent. Two 
names were continually on Jack^s 
lips, and as the sick man raved 
David grew to understand some of 
the things that had been a mystery 
to him. So it was that when 
Helen came for news and begged 
to go to him, David refused to let 
her in, and remained obdurate in 
spite of her prayers and entreaties. 

68 


JACK BARNABY 


She had hurt his friend enough, 
David thought grimly. It should 
not happen again. The fever left 
Jack very weak and with no vital- 
ity or apparent wish to live. The 
doctors were puzzled and ques- 
tioned David, who closed his lips 
and shook his head. 

Over in Paris Margery received 
and read the letter, but was uncon- 
vinced. She knew that her whole 
happiness lay in the man who had 
repudiated her, and save him she 
must. He was in danger, and with 
the quick intuition of the loving 
she divined the cause, and the 
answer to this letter was among 

69 


JACK BARNABY 


the first bits of the outside world 
that Jack received. It said briefly 
that she understood, and that no 
ghost of past or present could or 
would frighten her. She knew 
that she and she alone held the key 
to his happiness and she would not 
believe the contrary unless he him- 
self said so, and then only when 
looking straight into her eyes. The 
letter was vigorous and in his weak- 
ness he wept over it. From that day 
on he began to recover. When he 
was able he wrote her about his 
illness. He made no reference to 
her letter, but said at the end : I 
know my duty and shall do it.^^ 

70 


JACK BARN AB Y 


Then there was silence between 
them. Alone Margery y\^ept and 
prayed for strength to fight and 
the wisdom with which to win. 
Her whole heart and soul went out 
in tenderness toward the man^ and 
she forgave her own suffering be- 
cause she loved him. Barnaby 
waited. At length he went back 
to his work. He slid into his old 
habits and Helen into her old 
place. Outwardly it was as though 
Margery had never existed. From 
time to time a formal note was ex- 
changed between them. 


71 
























PART II. 


Eighteen months ago Margery 
had gone away: eighteen months 
ago she had given her heart and 
faith to the man who had kept the 
one and broken the other. Jack 
stood by the window. The Park 
trees were smart in russet and 
brown, a final effort to be gay be- 
fore winter should strip them and 
leave them only long, shivering, 
naked branches. 

It was three months since he 
had heard from Margery and in 
spite of the rigid discipline to 

73 


JACK BARNABY 


which he had schooled himself he 
was anxious. In his lean face 
there were traces of the struggle. 
A loosening about the mouth and 
a restlessness in the eyes gave 
the impression that the man had 
been fretted, and perhaps coars- 
ened by the events of the past 
months. 

He believed more firmly than 
ever that he had done right, — was 
doing right, was living up to the 
very best in himself ; in short was 
doing his duty. He had endeav- 
ored to put Margery out of his 
mind. He had written her friendly 
letters, and more than once he had 

74 


JACK BARNABY 


tried to bring her to acknowledge 
his position. She refused. He let 
the matter stand. But now, and 
herein lay the reason for the three 
months^ silence, a new and insur- 
mountable barrier had arisen, of 
which he had been able to tell her 
only vaguely. Yet, if there had 
been any hope left in his heart, he 
could no longer ignore that it was 
in vain. 

In January Helen had gone South, 
ill and depressed. She had come 
North in April, but, though much 
improved, she started almost imme- 
diately for Europe to take a rest 
cure. Jack only saw her once and 

75 


JACK BARNABY 


was shocked by her appearance. 
She bade him good-by almost sul- 
lenly and, as he was leaving, she 
called him back and threw herself 
into his arms, sobbing wildly. 

^^Oh! Jaibk, my darling,^^ she whis- 
pered between her sobs, you won^t 
forget me ! If ... I never come 
back, you will always remember 
me and how I loved you? Good- 
by, dearest ! And he had stopped 
her mouth with kisses, holding her 
in his strong arms. He was puz- 
zled. She had been gone a month 
before he heard from her. That 
letter lay in his breast pocket, Lest 
I forget.^' 


76 



Page 77 


“Your eyes so tender and your arms around me” 







JACK BARNABY 


^^Dear Jack : You have been won- 
dering what has become of me and 
the why of everything, so this af- 
ternoon, while Frederic goes out 
with Marion to a concert, I am 
going to write you. Beloved, it is 
not the first time that I have writ- 
ten you since that awful afternoon 
when we said good-by. How good 
you were to me ! . . . I never loved 
you as I did at that moment — ^your 
eyes so tender and your arms 
around me. If I could only have 
died then! Now I am afraid to 
die until I have seen you again, and 
yet perhaps I should be more afraid 
to see you. I am going to tell 
you something that will make you 
happy or very sad and angry. I am 

77 


JACK BARNABY 


afraid! You don^t understand^ Jack, 
Sweetheart, but I am awfully afraid 
of you. 

You know Marion, Fredericks sis- 
ter. She is a widow. Almost a girl, 
but so splendid! She is always 
buoyant, always happy. People 
have wondered why she has never 
married again and when I asked 
her she said, ^Why, Helen, what 
would I say to Dick ? And what 
could I give any man — my whole 
heart is in Dick. He has left me, 
visibly, but his love is with me al- 
ways and no one can replace or 
displace it.^ I asked her then how 
it was she was so light-hearted, and 
she said, quite gravely, ^My hus- 
band and I were so happy together 

78 


JACK BARNABY 


that I dared not grieve. If he felt 
I were wretched, he could not en- 
joy the rest he has won. Some day, 
^om^wTiere^ we will be together 
again ! ^ You must not mock, dear- 
est, because it is all very real to 
her, and she is so sweet and true 
that I would not do anything to 
disturb her faith — not that I could, 
it is too deep-rooted to be easily 
shaken. 

Y ou know I never had any friends ; 
you were all to me since that won- 
derful day when you came to me, 
broken and beaten on every side. 
Even then I wanted to take your 
head in my arms and kiss you in 
that little hollow between your 
eyes. Ah ! I love you very much ; 

79 


JACK BARNABY 


more than you can ever understand, 
for you are only a man, and a man 
never, never understands that he is 
a woman^s reason for living. I am 
going to get well, just because I 
caifit leave you. 

But you are getting impatient. 
Oh! Jackie, don^t you see it^s be- 
cause I am afraid ? I am putting 
off the dreadful moment. And yet 
you may be glad. I am. I am so 
glad and so proud, Jack ; put your 
arms around me and let me whisper 
in your ear. There ! Did you hear? 
No? Oh, dearest, come closer! 
Listen, under my heart lies another 
little heart ! Oh, my God ! help me ! 
I am half mad with pain and joy 
and shame and pride. 

80 


JACK BARNABY 


After all these years ! . . . I caif t 
quite believe it, and yet it’s true. 

Marion came in just now, she did 
not go to the concert. She asked 
me what I w^as doing and I told 
her. When I knew^ Jack, I told 
her she could tell Frederic if she 
thought best, all but your name. 
Oh ! she was splendid ! I have been 
very uncharitable all my life and 
I have never believed there were 
any women good enough not to 
trample me under foot. But I did 
not know Marion; I was very 
wretched and if she had turned 
away from me then I should have 
done something desperate. But, 
no ! Marion, God bless her ! came 
over to where I lay, sobbing, and 
81 


6 


JACK BARNABY 


kneeling down, put both, her arms 
around me and said, ^Don^t cry so, 
Nelly, it isn^t fair for the little 
baby/ 

Do you know what she has been 
doing ? Teaching me to laugh ! I 
am learning and I am growing well 
and rosy. If I cry, or am dispirited 
or indolent, then comes my sweet 
sister and says, ^Tut, tut, Nelly, you 
know you must give him an even 
disposition and industrious habits.^ 

We are leaving here to-morrow 
for Normandy. Frederic has rented 
a house for me, as I have decided 
to stay abroad until after the event, 
which is due early in September. 

Now that I have told you, I feel 
happier. A load is off my mind. 

82 


JACK BARNABY 


I can see what you are think- 
ing, — what Frederic said. Ah! 
that is one of the hard parts. He 
is so kind, and goes around trying 
to look cheerful, but — he knows it 
isAt his. Marion told him my con- 
dition; just bare facts, without any 
comments. He went out and did 
not come home until the next day 
and then he came straight to my 
room. I was frightened, he looked 
so stern. God only knows into 
what depths of hell he went that 
night, but in the morning he was 
another man. 

^ Helen,^ he said, standing at the 
foot of my bed, ^ I want to ask for- 
giveness. When Marion told me, I 
was angry and I would have killed 

8S 


JACK BARNABY 


you, for I knew it could not be my 
child, and, blind with rage, I would 
have gone to you; but Marion stood 
in my way and refused to let me 
pass, so I went out into the night 
alone. I reviewed our life and I 
know I have forfeited the right to 
blame you. I think you will be suffi- 
ciently punished. I shan^t trouble 
you any more than I can help, but 
I want to say that I shall do the 
best I can for our child.^ (He em- 
phasized the ^our.^) I have been a 
bad husband; I hope some time 
you will forgive me. I will ask 
nothing further; I shall not spy on 
you ; I leave you to your own con- 
science.^ Goodness, my conscience! 
and yet do you know I believe I 

84 


JACK BARNABY 


have one somewhere. Oh ! Jackie, 
my darling ! I would give half my 
life to lie in your arms to-night, to 
know that you were not angry and 
that you were just a little proud. 

Marion says, ‘What, Nelly, still 
writing? I wish you would make 
me a promise. Promise me that 
you will never go back to him ! ’ I 
laughed at her. How can I prom- 
ise ! How do I know! I expect to 
go back to you. I should die to 
think I must live without you. 
There is a new tie added to the old 
one. Good night, darling ! 

Your Helen.” 

Jack knew this letter by heart, 
but he nevertheless read it carefully 

8S 


JACK BARNABY 


through and then read the cable 
that lay beside it : 

“ Mother and son send love.” 

That was aU, but it had made 
him dizzy and faint. These were 
the things that passed through his 
mind as he stood by the window. 
He was so absorbed that he did not 
hear a knock on the door he had 
left open^ and as he turned away 
Margery walked into the room. 

She was dressed in deep mourn- 
ing and it struck Jack that she 
was singularly taU. 

There was the inevitable ex- 
change of commonplace phrase 
while Jack seated her, and then the 
8« 


JACK BARNABY 


inevitable constraint fell upon both. 
With Helen’s letter fresh in his 
mind, Jack forced back aU words 
of joy and love. There was a 
silence. Each listened to the beat- 
ing of his own heart. 

“You are in mourning,” Jack 
said at length, to break in upon 
that dangerous silence. 

“Yes,” she answered simply, “ I 
am aU alone now.” She stopped a 
moment. “ My uncle and aunt were 
both killed in an automobile acci- 
dent last month and ” The 

tears welled into her eyes. “ Oh ! 
Jack, they have been very kind to 
me and Uncle never meant to be 


87 


JACK BARNABY 


cruel. He thought he was doing 
right, the best thing for me, as he 
viewed it. He wanted me to tell 
you that he was sorry and to — to 
take — care of — his little girl.” She 
was crying. She wiped her eyes. 

“ I am very sorry for you, little 
woman ! You are, indeed, alone !” 
He knew that she expected words 
that he would dearly love to say 
and — Helen’s letter burned over his 
heart. 

“Well?” she said at length. 

“ Margery, I can’t ! ” 

“Why? tell me why? I have a 
right to know. Is it money f ” she 
demanded. 

88 


JACK BARNABY 


“ No. I have been successful the 
past year, and — ^no, it is something 
else, something quite insurmount- 
able ! ” His manner was grave and 
almost indifferent. Margery’s eyes 
never left his face. 

“Oh! It’s the Other Woman!” 

“ Yes ! ” Jack did not look at her, 
but walked over to the window. 
He could feel the terrible look in 
her eyes and see the tense expres- 
sion of her mouth. He knew she 
was suffering more intensely than 
in all her life ; he was tortured by 
the knowledge that she was suffer- 
ing through him and became of 
him. Yet this must be final. There 


89 


JACK BARNABY 


must be nothing left. Slowly he 
took the cable from his pocket and 
spread it out. He read it again 
and a little quiver of pain shot 
through him. Without a word of 
explanation he handed the yellow 
slip to the motionless girl. He had 
been afraid she would make a 
scene ; faint or cry ; but she read it, 
and carefully folding it up, rose, 
and went over to him where he 
stood by the window. 

^^Jack!^^ He turned and faced 
her and looked down into two 
thoughtful gray eyes in whose 
clear depths there was no trace of 
bitterness. 

90 


JACK BARNABY 


“ I understand.” She was trying 
to put into words the knowledge 
that came to her that this was not 
the end. She did not know how 
to say it, for liovo did she know? 
And what was the end ? He must 
do his duty and she must go her 
way; but none the less, some day, 
somehow, his way would be her 
way, and the right way. She stood 
looking up at him. 

understand. I can’t explain 
what I feel to be true. The past 
and the present are hers, but the 
future is mine. You can shut me 
out of your life, but you can’t cheat 
Fate. We may each wander to 

91 


JACK BARNABY 


the ends of the earth but Fate will, 
when the time is come, bring us 
together. I love you, and you love 
me. That is all. There is no other 
woman who can stand between us. 

“ I am leaving you now because 
I love you enough to help you. 
Don’t ever forget that I am your 
best friend.” 

“My dear girl,” Jack said, 
“there can be no future. I have 
made my life and you have no 
part, nor ever can have, in it. 
You must consider me a married 
man and one quite unworthy of 
the honor you are doing him. This 
is final. You will find another who 


98 


JACK BARNABY 


will protect and help you^ and you 
will be happy in an atmosphere 
of honest love and affection. I 
shall never forget you, but shall 
cherish your memory like the bless- 
ing of my dead past. There is no 
other way. I know what I have 
to do ; my duty to you and to her, 
— each is quite clear, and I shall 
do it.^^ Jack paused — he had spo- 
ken quietly, without undue empha- 
sis, but suddenly broke out pas- 
sionately: 

But even if she were to die I 
would not marry you, nor any 
woman. I loath myself^ my weak- 
ness ; to live with me would mean 


93 


JACK BARNABY 


suffering and bring shame to a 
woman like you. I had rather send 
you away with love beaten and 
hurt in your eyes, than live to 
watch the slow dawn of scorn, dis- 
gust and pity in them. No, this is 
the end ! He opened the door for 
her and as she stood on the thresh- 
hold her eyes rested in his for a 
moment and she said with a soft 
thrill in her voice : 

^^No, Jack, not the end but the 
beginning.'^ Once in the street she 
felt very tired; her courage sud- 
denly left her. She had gone to 
him and — now it was over. She 
had come so far and noxo it was 


94 


JACK BARNABY 


ended ; there was nothing to look 
forward to. 

She felt a jealous pang in her 
heart. That Other Woman — 
how she hated her ! She had al- 
ways felt rather sorry for her, but 
now — ^now she had Jack^s son — 
how she hated her! 

When he had closed the door 
behind her, Barnaby went back to 
his desk. He threw himself down 
in his chair and, leaning his elbows 
down on the table, pressed his fin- 
gers through his hair, wrinkling his 
brows and shutting his eyes. He 
sat up suddenly and his mouth 
curved into a half cynical, half 

95 


JACK BARNABY 


whimsical smile. The situation was 
so droll, so bitterly farcical! By 
one of those unexpected chances 
Jack had become a man of means. 
Hardly a week ago a man had 
come to him to buy his holding in 
an old unproductive gold mine in 
Mexico. He was inclined to laugh 
at any one who wanted the thing, 
but his guardian angel had saved 
him and he had put the matter 
into David’s hands. David sold the 
claim for half a million ! He would 
have been mad with delight just a 
short year ago. But now, he re- 
flected, letting his head fall for- 
ward, now it meant “ Duty.” Prom 

96 


JACK BARNABY 


the day of the sale Jack felt a sud- 
den sense of smothering responsi- 
bility. When the cable came Jack 
knew what that duty and responsi- 
bility were. In the silence of that 
room which Margery had just 
quitted, Jack’s determination took 
shape. 

While over some of the minor 
factors of his daily existence, even 
those pertaining to his pleasure or 
comfort. Jack would recklessly 
squander days coming to decision, 
once his obvious duty clear, he 
went toward it with unreasoned 
abruptness. He was moved by a 
force which he could neither con- 


7 


97 


JACK BARNABY 


trol nor direct and which only 
acted under the direct stimulus of 
necessity. These decisions were 
never questioned by him. He con- 
sidered no one in the application, 
nor whether he made pain for 
others or himself. Nothing could 
shake him, nor make him doubtful 
as to his justification. 

So it was that without further 
consideration he wrote to Helen. 
He told her briefly that he had re- 
ceived the cable and though the 
event did not awaken any great 
joy in him, he believed this was 
due to the tardy reahzation of his 
responsibility. He went on to say 

98 


JACK BARNABY 


that years ago there had been a 
question of her divorce but that his 
worldly position made it unwar- 
rantable. 

^^Fate plays queer tricks with 
men. A gold mine which was 
partly the cause of my father’s fail- 
ure has, through recent excavations 
in the immediate vicinity, become 
of value. The sale of my holding 
has freed me from material anxiety. 
I have also gained recognition in 
my line and have a position which 
I now offer you and the child. 

In view of the facts in Mr. Lang- 
don’s possession, it would seem to 
me advisable to hand him this let- 
ter. He will, I believe, see the jus- 
99 


JACK BARNABY 


tice and necessity for a divorce and 
help you to get it. 

Let me hear as soon as possible 
what you decide. With tenderest 
messages for your health and hap- 
piness, believe me, 

Devotedly yours, 

John Barnaby.” 

It was six weeks before the an- 
swer came. Barnaby had accepted 
his future with a calm satisfaction 
which, if not happiness, was content- 
ment. He knew what answer Helen 
would make, and his only anxiety 
was the delay and the inevitable 
annoyances. 

He bought a house at on 

100 


JACK BARNABY 


the Hudson, and put the men to 
restore it. He spent most of his 
time there and personally super- 
vised the work he was having done. 
His intention was to make his 
headquarters at the hotel until the 
house was habitable, and to move 
in at the first possible moment so 
as to be on hand while the deco- 
rating and furnishing was being 
completed. 

He was very busy and he enjoyed 
the unaccustomed luxury of buy- 
ing those things he had admired 
so long. He was contented, too, 
knowing that he was doing his 
duty, and he was endeavoring to 
101 


JACK BARNABY 


make himself believe that he did it 
because he wanted to. Margery 
had gone out of his life. He loved 
her stiU^ and at times, while wan- 
dering over the fine old grounds or 
the house itself, he would evoke 
her face and imagine that she was 
the bride he was awaiting. But 
these were momentary lapses for 
which he took himself severely to 
task. 

One morning the letter from 
Helen came stinging him out of the 
lethargy into which he had sunk; 
and, turning the gentle remorse 
which had been as a balm to his 
wounded love to black despair 

103 


JACK BARNABY 


and hopelessness, hardened the man 
suddenly into an impenetrable and 
dangerous creature. 

^^Ah! My Dear Jack: — You have 
wondered why you have not had an 
answer to your letter, for to you 
there has been but one answer pos- 
sible. You wrote me, to offer me 
the thing which a year ago would 
have filled my cup to overflowing ; 
you will be surprised when I say 
that it has come too late. I think 
it will be hard for you to under- 
stand ; and it is hard, very hard, for 
me to explain ; and it is because I 
have not been able to do so with 
any degree of satisfaction to myself 
that it has lain a month unanswered. 


103 


JACK B ARNAB Y 


A year ago, did I say ? Even four 
months ago, when I told you if you 
had written me that letter I should 
have accepted all you offer. To- 
day, with little Frederic sleeping 
beside me, I write, dear friend, to 
say that it is too late. From now 
on I belong body and soul to that 
little fragile creature. 

Perhaps if I tell you some of the 
thoughts that have come to me 
during these past months you can 
understand the change in me. After 
I had written you, I felt better, 
easier, and for a month I waited for 
the answer; that response which 
would come out of your full heart 
and bid you say to me what you have 
said at last ; therefore your letter 

104 


JACK BARNABY 


was a cruel blow. I was well nigh 
mad^ for Frederic was kind; Marion 
was more mother than sister to me, 
and underneath it all I suddenly saw 
myself, a woman who had strayed 
with her eyes open and then closed 
them against every common virtue 
and loyalty. It was quite vain that 
I recalled my husband^s abandon, 
his open infidelity, the callousness 
with which he overlooked my own 
infidelity at a time when possibly 
sterner treatment might have 
brought me to my senses. When 
his punishment came he stood up 
under it, accepted it almost grate- 
fully, and it has not been easy for a 
man as proud as he. No man loving 
me could have been more thought- 

105 


JACK BARNABY 


ful or more tender during these 
past months. It was intolerable 
to have him rise and overtop the 
moral stature of my lover. 

As my time approached I grew 
feverishly excited and more than 
once knelt in the village church 
and prayed ; I, who have not prayed 
for years. The prayers were voice- 
less^ but God knew it was not to 
come safely through my trial that 
I prayed, but that in that day of 
anguish my soul might be born 
anew with the child. 

He was born at the early dawn, 
and all day exhausted I slept, so 
that when I awoke refreshed, but 
very broken and languid, it was 
already night. They brought him 
106 


JACK BARNABY 


in and laid him beside me. His 
little head lay in the curve of my 
arm, all the creases of his long 
sleep wrinkling his little face into 
the semblance of age; then he 
opened his eyes and looked straight 
into mine. I cannot describe the 
sensation that it gave me, that first 
look of my son into my eyes, that 
little creature, fiesh of my fiesh, 
bone of my bone, who a few hours 
ago was only a part of me, and 
who, though already launched on 
an individual life, drew its suste- 
nance from my body; and who, 
though of me yet, was a soul apart; 
a perfectly pure soul, a body with 
no desire of any kind, a hardly 
awakened demand for food; eyes 

107 


JACK BARN A BY 


that had never seen anything, ears 
that had never heard, a mouth 
that no human lips had ever 
touched. I bent my head and 
would have kissed him; but he 
opened his eyes again and I 
brushed his forehead gently. There 
was much for me to think of be- 
fore I touched his lips. 

The next few days were filled 
with the usual routine, but daily, as 
I lay motionless, the wonder grew 
on me. I had, I knew, tasted the 
highest joy a woman is permitted 
to know and I was content. 

One day Marion said to me, ^ Do 
you want me to cable 'Yes,^ I 
answered, ^tell him we send our 
love.^ I began to realize that you 
108 


JACK BARNABY 


were still a factor in my existence. 
I had not forgotten you, but I had 
eliminated you in the present and 
in the future. 

After I was up, I used to sit for 
hours with the boy on my lap look- 
ing out over the sea, trying to 
gather and glean strength from his 
frailty against myself and my over- 
whelming love for you. Gradually 
peace settled over me, and I felt 
my heart grow lighter as tlie days 
wore on. I need never be afraid 
again so long as my child lived; his 
mother would never do anything 
that he might not know. I had 
done him an irreparable wrong, 
but now my whole life was forfeit 
to amend. 


109 


JACK BARNABY 


Frederic came back last week, 
and very humbly I went to him, 
and for two hours we talked. I told 
him that I had loved my child^s 
father for years, that I loved him 
still and should always love him, 
but that henceforth we were stran- 
gers ; we might sometime be 
friends. I told him all that I have 
here told you and more of my 
desire to be good, of my weakness, 
my distrust. I told him I was 
punished for my wickedness, and 
that I knew he could not forget it. 
Then I begged him in the name of 
my girlish love, my sin and its con- 
sequence, to help me be true to 
what was best and right and just. 
He answered me quite simply: 

110 


JACK BARNABY 


will do my best/ What confes- 
sions he made were for me alone 
and I hold them as sacred. 

That is why your letter has come 
too late. I am only a woman, and 
I love you, and there will come 
days of craving for you, hungering 
for your voice, your touch. I can 
already feel the intolerable empti- 
ness that will come into my life 
when I post my letter. For this is 
the end ! I have burned my bridges 
behind me and henceforth husband 
and son will protect me against 
myself. 

Even now I can scarcely bear 
to finish my letter, knowing it is 
the last I shall ever write you. I 
would delay the awful moment, 
111 


JACK BARNABY 


and I know my weakness^ but you 
are free. You never loved me^ and 
you love that other girl. Find her 
and make her love you. But even 
in her arms you will never forget 
me, nor can her innocent love be 
deeper or more passionate than 
my guilty one. You are free, and 
it is I who have freed you; you 
could never have left me, for when 
you tried I drew you back. You 
are rich and free; may you be 
happy. 

Are you wondering why I am 
not afraid of you? Because, and I 
speak in a whisper, I know now 
that it was I who wielded the spell, 
not you who forced me to be hum- 
ble. It makes me blush, but I am 
112 


JACK BARNABY 


glad; it gives me only one enemy 
instead of two. 

And now, let all enmity be for- 
gotten, and let us each forgive the 
other. Some day we may meet, 
but may it be as friends. 

If you ever pray, let it be for her 
who loved much. Helen.” 

It was about a month later that 
David received the following letter 
from one of his friends, also a pal 
of Jack’s. It enclosed a clipping : 

“ Dear David ; Jack told us that 
you would not lend your counte- 
nance to the party he proposed to 
bring to The Towers last Saturday, 
nor be witness to what you so 

113 


8 


JACK BARNABY 


aptly termed ^ his damnation/ but if 
you had known how it was to turn 
out you would not have been so 
scornful. Really it was the most 
fitting dramatic ending to a career 
that has been dramatic and erratic 
to a degree. 

You knew, we all knew, that for 
the past month Jack had been 
drinking hard and playing the very 
devil. I remember one night that 
Jack came into my rooms with that 
French girl, that you tried to rea- 
son with him, and that Jack made 
a pass at you and cursed you for a 
meddler. You knew he was drunk 
and went out quietly, but you let 
him alone after that and he went 
along the wide road to hell merrily 

114 


JACK BARNABY 


enougli. W e fellows were to blame. 
Jack was the youngest and the 
most gifted, but he had money to 
spend, and he was a good host, and 
— well, I am not making excuses. 
You know what happened. There 
was a stag party at The Towers. 
He promised us the time of our 
lives. 

^^We all went up on the noon 
express and arrived at the house 
about four o^clock. 

There was a good deal of stamp- 
ing about the big empty rooms and 
some curiosity evinced as to the 
surprise. Vincent the Silent served 
drinks and then Jack excused him- 
self. 

^ Boys,^ he said, ^ look around 

115 


JACK BARNABY 


the house and amuse yourselves^ I 
have an order to give. Til soon be 
with you.^ So we toddled off. 
Mack and I went up stairs^ and 
close on my heels came Danny. 
We found our rooms, and then be- 
gan to see the rest of the house. 
Jack^s room was on the front over- 
looking the river, and next to it 
was a suite of two rooms and 
bath fit for a princess. We began 
to suspect that the princess was not 
far off and that we were going to 
find her if we looked hard. On the 
other side of J ack’s room is a little 
den and we put our heads in. We 
had heard a rustle of skirts, or 
thought we had, and were sure we 
had found our princess. Jove, 
no 


JACK BARNABY 


man, slie was there, and a princess ! 
She was small, dainty, with an un- 
mistakable air of distinction in all 
her little person. She wore black, 
her coat thrown over a chair, and 
she drooped as though she were 
tired. She straightened up as wc 
walked in, and looked at us with 
clear gray eyes and just a shadow 
of embarrassment on her face. She 
looked beyond, inclined her head 
and turned away. 

Danny popped his head in. 

^ Hello, hello,^ he said in a stage 
whisper, ^what have you found? ^ 
And he made an exaggerated 
bow in the girfs direction. She 
did not move, and as some of the 
other men came in she rose and 


117 


JACK BARNABY 


went over to the window. I began 
then to have misgivings and backed 
toward the door, when an exclama- 
tion that was almost an oath made 
me turn to see Jack, his eyes blaz- 
ing, standing in the doorway. He 
was looking at her, and she drew 
herself up and faced him. 

In two strides he was beside her. 

^ What are you doing here ? ^ he 
said roughly. ^ What do you mean 
by coming — There can be nothing 
between us ! He seized her arm 
and almost shook her. We should 
have gone, but our curiosity was 
aroused and so, huddled in the door, 
we waited. 

^ I have come because you need 
me,^ she said very softly. 

118 



‘“I don’t care, I SHALL STAY’” 


Page 119 



, S? A 1, 

" ^ ■> ■■ ■ 


c? 


F*- . W - •' • 

'' -i^v V-^.* 

f . ' ■' - -V ■‘-.yx.T'fc 

• ■ ^ i i» A St*; -.''■■'‘•I 

■fr'v^'’.-, ■■i,'" ■•^'- ■■'^■•MiiS ■ .• ";?i; 

3,-- :-4 v v -^m?-‘-';'^ ■.■’■ ' 

f • V • ^gh , ^ •; '* . 






. * • ',, , 

■ * ‘ ‘v » . 

-• r ' ■ * X- - 

’-Tk- \ - X?J 


V * • • 


/V" > i 

* ' * J' ;- -M-. ' ^ 




T^ 


^ '♦ 
•9*^ 


*4 



T» -- 


m ' 




•j' ., 




S 9 


'a * 

•> “■ . . ' 




♦ •■<] 


iflk :. 'i . ■?' 


If ^kt<rm '‘XS43 

-' ' ** A, • 

^ I • w-'-^ , 

'-i. - 


5fev:S ' /c;v^': >v-- 'f. •^•- ' 

y% p* ^ ^ • - ’ *5 - ' w ^ 

r V ,•• ■ . ■• ..t-.^:r' , ■>^-MP ■■■-• 

'fry /* ■ • ‘ -v ^ L ' # ' 'j* ^ ^ /rt-y 

^^.'■’ 1. f '•' ■■->>... ,.v ■•'^r 


.* ^ .^17 %,■ ■-:» »■ 

















=>. » T#. 

t 


^ I <■ 


'> • 




t ' V* -■ ' ' .'' ' J * 




I ft 


•-5.= :' „ ■ '■^■' - *- V*',/*;"' ..,,5^ 

,-. ; .A; >;*•> 1 

J' toa- ’'i‘^^V .i,- _ . \4i 

•* -^ — . . . . - *’■ *■ -'^lJ 



•T-i 


1^ 


•r - 


vii. 







ri 


VL.:;./ ^V- 


. ‘^ *‘'» - 
i » ft' » ■ 

•:< «*'*4 m . JKl 9 . ' 



JACK BARNABY 


“ ‘ But I don’t need you ; I don’t 
want you here. You can have no 
part in my life. Y ou must go away.’ 

“ She put one hand on his 
shoulder 

“ ‘1 am going to stay, Jack,’ she 
said firmly. 

“ ‘ I tell you I won’t marry you ! ’ 
His voice was rough and deep. 

“And then that adorable little 
girl slipped her other arm around 
his neck and pulled his face down 
until her lips touched his, a smile 
in her eyes, and murmured so low 
I am not sure I was dreaming. 

“ ‘ I don’t care, I shall stay.’ 

“There was an instant’s silence. 
Jack pushed her back and held her 
at arm’s length. 


119 


JACK BARNABY 


you mean it?^ And his 
voice trembled with emotion. 

^^^Tes!^ It seemed high time 
we left, but at the same instant 
Jack turned and faced us, his arm 
around the little lady — gone sud- 
denly very limp and white. I have 
never seen a man look as he looked. 
He had the radiance of an angel in 
his face and eyes. His voice rang 
out clear in the startled silence. 

^ Boys, boys, let me present my 
wife to you. She has come home 
sooner than she was expected, but I 
want you to help me welcome her.^ 
We were knocked out that time 
because we did not know Jack was 
married, but we did our prettiest, 
and by common unspoken consent 
120 


JACK BARNABY 


we came back to the city. We 
were decidedly de trop. 

“ Read me the riddle if you. can. 

“ The enclosure says he was mar- 
ried on Saturday, but it must have 
been after we left, for I am sure he 
was with us from noon on. But I 
am knocked out, and I have no 
connected ideas left. 

“Yours faithfully, 

“H. L. Porter.” 

David folded up the letter. 

“ Married Saturday P.M. by the 
Rev. Archibald Phillips, Margery 
Churchill, daughter of the late John 
Churchill, to John Barnaby of New 
York,” was what the clipping said. 
121 





V 
) . 


. '.'l.i-i 


MAY 5 1904 





